


The World is Not Enough, but You Might Be

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cas is Dean’s new partner in fighting crime, and Dean is unimpressed… for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World is Not Enough, but You Might Be

"No," growled Dean as soon as he sat down. "No way am I working with _him_.”

Ellen Harvelle surveyed him calmly, taking a sip of her scotch.

"You don’t even know who your new partner is, Mr Winchester," she replied, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the buzz of the crowded bar. "You can’t object to him just yet."

Dean cast her a scornful look.

"Oh, yeah, which person here could _possibly_ be our new agent? It’s so hard to figure out. Maybe it’s one of those college nerds over there? Or that guy on his bachelor party? Or Ash?” As though hearing his name, Ash swung around on his barstool and gave Dean a wave. “Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that guy standing next to the bar. You know, the one in the trenchcoat and the bad suit and cheap shoes. The one who is so obviously the greenest rookie in the history of espionage, I don’t even need to see his face to know he’s gonna be useless. A total liability.”

At that moment, the guy in question finished his conversation with the bartender, and turned to look out over the room.

"Well, at least he’s pretty," Dean said.

"He came top of all his classes," Ellen pointed out, pouring Dean a whisky.

"Yeah, well. I came bottom of all my classes, and I’m the best agent you have right now. Grades don’t mean jack in the field, and you know it."

Ellen nodded, frowning slightly.

"That’s why I’m putting him with you, Dean. I think you’ll be good for each other."

Dean watched the man carefully, taking in his awkward pose, messy hair and backwards tie. He looked out of place - not a city boy, Dean guessed. On the other hand, he seemed mildly uncomfortable but not especially daunted - and his eyes were bright and watchful.

"He might be OK," Dean ground out grudgingly.

"That’s my boy," Ellen said warmly, reaching over the table to pat Dean’s cheek. "And before you go acting all aged-veteran on the guy, remember you’ve only been in the field two years yourself. You might be able to learn something from him, too."

"Please, Ellen," Dean scoffed, standing up and beginning to walk towards the guy, who was now attempting to lean casually on the bar. "We both know I’ve got nothing left to learn."

He approached his new partner with a strolling, confident stride, one hand slipped into his pocket and the other swirling his cut-glass whisky tumbler. He put on his best smirk.

"Hey there," he said in a low, rumbling voice. "Do you come here often?"

The guy’s eyes snapped up to meet his; despite himself, Dean felt slightly skewered on those twin blue blades. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"You’re Dean Winchester," the man said, his tone even lower than Dean’s.

"The one and only," Dean replied with a cocky smile and lazy, half-closed eyes. "And you are?"

"Castiel Novak."

Dean raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his drink.

"Well, Castiel," he said, "are you ready to risk life and limb to serve your country?"

"I don’t think there will be a great deal of risk involved in our first mission in Arizona," Castiel replied with a frown. "It appears to be a routine assignment. I’ve read the dossier several times."

"Of course you have," Dean said, tone as dry as the Atacama.

"Our potential target is giving his speech in less than thirty-six hours," Castiel continued. "We’ll be there to provide security after an assassination threat was made."

"Babysitting duty," Dean said disgustedly. "Well, I guess we should hit the road. Come on, my car’s out back."

"I brought my own ride -" Castiel began.

"If it’s that Lincoln Continental in the parking lot, you’re leaving it here," Dean threw over his shoulder. Castiel opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut with a glower. Dean lead Castiel out of the bar, directing a sarcastic parting salute towards Ellen, who had been watching them with a smile.

 

"See, the thing about being a spy is, you’ve got to have the image," Dean was saying, a couple of hours down the road.

"I have an image," Castiel said grumpily.

"Yeah, Mr Straight-Laced Tax Accountant, sure," said Dean, waving a hand dismissively. "I’m talking about an image, Castiel.” The guy’s name still felt awkward to say. “I’m talking great car, sharp suit -“

"Is the supercilious attitude also a job requirement, or is that for leisure purposes?" Castiel snapped. Dean raised his hands off the steering wheel in mock-surrender.

"Hey, don’t let my decent advice get in the way of you dressing like a loser," he said. It was a cheap shot, but he didn’t have anything better. Castiel glared at him sidelong.

"Next time we stop, I’ll check if they have more suitable clothing for sale. Do you think a silk tie would be pretentious enough, or do I need to go for a cravat?"

"You know what, you can shove the cravat up your -" A sharp ringing cut Dean off; with a furious glance at Castiel, he pulled out his smartphone and answered it. "Winchester," he grunted. "Yeah. Yeah. What?" he paused for a long time, listening. "Right. Got it." He hung up and slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. He drove on in silence, ignoring Castiel’s inquisitive stare. After a few seconds, Castiel sighed angrily through his nose and turned away to stare out of the window.

Ten minutes of stony silence later, Dean caved.

"That was Ellen," he growled. "There’s been another assassination threat, more serious than the first one. We might actually see some action this weekend."

Castiel was silent for a long time; Dean didn’t know if he was enjoying his psychological victory or thinking over the news.

"I look forward to it," Castiel said finally, in a smaller voice than before.

Dean turned to look at him.

"You scared?" he demanded, hearing the triumph in his tone and dialling it back when he saw Castiel’s slightly frozen expression. "It’ll be fine, you know. I won’t let anything happen, I’m a professional." Another pause, in which Dean considered every angle of those two sentences and decided he hated them.

"So am I. Just watch the road, Dean," Cas replied, still quiet, but he looked slightly better.

He fell asleep a while later, so Dean tugged a blanket from the back seat of the Impala into the front, and draped it over his new partner. Castiel looked mildly annoyed, even when he slept. He grumbled unintelligibly for the best part of an hour; Dean picked out random words every now and then, like “Winchester”, “ass” and “tax accountant”. Since it was dark, and no one was around to see, for once Dean didn’t bother to hide his smile.

 

The hotel was large and crowded, a security nightmare. Dean and Castiel paced the light, spacious halls, keeping an eye out as best they could for any sign of disturbance.

"Our potential target is a man named Crowley," Castiel was saying. "he works for the government, apparently that’s all we need to know."

Dean nodded.

"We just do as we’re told," he agreed, running one finger under his smooth white collar. They turned a corner, Dean peering down each passage they passed without enthusiasm.

"But how do we know if we’re doing the right thing?" Castiel asked as they arrived back outside Crowley’s hotel room. He gave the cleaning lady pushing her trolley a narrow-eyed, suspicious look.

"The right thing? Right and wrong’s not important in this job. You do what you’re ordered to do, got it?"

Castiel pressed his lips together and said nothing for a while. Then -

"Dean, I think there was something wrong with that cleaning lady."

"Right. Well, yeah, she looks lethal," Dean agreed, watching the little old woman disappearing round a corner.

"I mean it, Dean. She’s come out of that exact same room four times now." He pointed to the door next to Crowley’s. "How many times could she need to clean in there?"

Dean’s incredulity hardened into a frown.

"C’mon," he said, moving quickly and silently down the sun-soaked hallway. Castiel followed him, his shoes squeaking slightly. As they rounded the corner, Castiel almost collided with Dean, who had stopped suddenly. Peering over his partner’s shoulder, Castiel could see why: the cleaning lady, her grey wig lying on the floor, had a gun. And it was pointed right at them.

"Nice to meet you, gentlemen," she said with a smirk.

"Bela Talbot," Castiel murmured in Dean’s ear. Dean looked around at him with a frown.

"How do you know?"

"Because she’s wanted by the CIA, and the FBI, and the -"

"Quiet, short one," Bela interrupted, waving the gun. "Big guy, how about you come over here and call the elevator for me. I’m getting out of here."

"Did you kill Mr Crowley?" Castiel demanded. Bela paused, looking confused.

"Who’s Crowley?" she said. "I’m here for robbery, plain and simple." She held up a plastic bin-liner, which jangled slightly when it moved. "Time to take out the trash." The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

"Now, what to do with you two. I should kill you," she said airily. "You’ll come after me, otherwise."

The gun was pointed straight at Castiel’s chest. He tried to breathe slowly and calmly, but he was sweating and his hands were trembling. He looked over at Dean, who was inching towards Bela, fists clenched.

"You - you could," Castiel said shakily. "But it would be very messy. And you’re not really our problem, we’re here as a security detail. We’ve been ordered not to leave the building, so we won’t be able to follow you."

"Hmm. You, maybe, rookie," Bela said, and then in a single, heart-squeezing moment she had turned to face Dean. "You, on the other hand…" her finger tightened on the trigger. "I wouldn’t trust you to do as you’re told for one minute." She changed the angle of the gun in her hand, aiming for his leg.

"Don’t worry," she said, "this won’t permanently debilitate a bit."

Her finger curled back further, and Castiel leaped.

The bang of the gun was impossibly loud. Castiel curled up tight where he’d fallen on the floor, eyes closed, all his thoughts just a shapeless blur of panic. He didn’t think he was bleeding, nor was he in any pain. He felt a cold, smooth object sitting in his right hand, and looked down to see the gun clutched tightly in his fist. Looking up, Castiel saw Dean wrestle Bela against the wall and cuff her to a radiator.

"Are you OK?" he was shouting. "Talk to me, are you hurt?" He finished securing Bela and pulled Castiel roughly to his feet, checking him over thoroughly and gripping his shoulders. "Jesus, man. When you’re disarming someone, you push the gun away. You don’t _stand in front of it_. How the hell that didn’t hit you, I have no idea. What were you _thinking_?”

This close, Castiel could see the sweat on Dean’s upper lip and the concern in his eyes.

"There wasn’t time," Castiel said stupidly. "I just - didn’t want -" the world went fuzzy and dark for a moment, and the sound of white noise in his head increased.

"Whoa, there. Take it easy, I’ve got you," Dean said, his tone gentler as he held Castiel in a half-hug to keep him standing. "Go and get yourself a drink, yeah? I’ll wait here for the Police." Castiel nodded mutely, missing the solid strength of Dean’s body as soon as he stepped away.

Dean found Castiel an hour later, standing stiffly outside Crowley’s door.

"Feeling better, my swooning princess?" Dean asked with a grin. Castiel ground his teeth together.

"Yes, thank you," he said. "And as I recall, _I_ saved _you_. So actually, I’m a _badass_ swooning princess.”

Dean laughed, fully and genuinely in a way that Castiel had never seen him do before. It gave him a shot of excitement, and he found himself smiling too.

"You did great, Cas," Dean said, after a moment. Looking into his eyes, Castiel saw sincerity - the usual veil of irony parted for a brief moment.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas replied.

"Mr Crowley, my name is Dean Winchester and this is my partner, Castiel Novak. We’re here for your security."

Crowley cast a languorous glance at the two of them, his lazy expression belied by a pair of sharp, calculating eyes.

"Wonderful. Always nice to have a pair of goons on hand for entertainment purposes. Either of you want a beer?"

"No, thank you," Cas said sternly. "Your speech is in a couple of hours, correct?"

"Yes, that’s right. All my rivals gathered in one room to hear me talk. At least ninety percent of them would stick a knife in my back without a second thought, and I have to talk to them about policies and figures and interdepartmental bonding. Funny how the world works," Crowley said.

"Yeah, well, what you talk about is your business," Dean said. "We’re just here to make sure the whackjob who sent you a couple nasty messages this week doesn’t turn up and stick the knife in while you’re talking. Sound good?"

"Sounds ideal," Crowley confirmed. "I’ll see you gentlemen at the party beforehand? Just a couple of drinks, probably going to be boring as Hell, but it’d be nice to survive it. It’s in the same room as the speech, right underneath the one we’re in now."

Dean nodded. “We’ll be there,” he said.

"Good. And… do something about that one’s suit."

Cas sulked all the way down to the Impala.

"I do not need to change, Dean," he said sullenly. "This suit is perfectly adequate. Crowley has no right to demand -"

"Ah, but it’s not Crowley doing the demanding," Dean said, pulling a long bag out of the trunk. "Forget about him. This is for me." He held the bag out to Cas, his cheeks reddening slightly. "I mean, you know, so that I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you."

Cas huffed and accepted the bag with an eye-roll.

"Good. You can change in the bathroom, come on."

Dean waited outside the stall, leaning against the sink while Cas struggled into the suit.

"It’s not going to be perfect, I’m a little taller than you," Dean said. "But it’s better than nothing. I mean, not that you would wear nothing to the party. That’d be… that would be weird, and -"

"Sorry, Dean, were you talking? I can’t really hear you over the fan."

"Nope," Dean said more loudly, full of relief. "Nothing at all, Cas."

"Dean, do you think there’s something wrong with Crowley?" Cas asked.

"Yeah, he’s a Grade-A tool," Dean replied.

"No, more than that. He seemed shifty, don’t you think? And the way he was speaking about his coworkers…"

Dean was about to scoff, but then remembered Cas’ intuition about Bela being trouble. Still, it was their job to protect Crowley, not suspect him.

"We’ll keep an eye on him, Cas," he compromised by saying. "After all, that’s what we’re here for."

"Hmm," said Cas. "The party will be starting. You go ahead, I’ll catch you up."

"OK. Don’t spend too long on your beauty regime, princess."

"I hardly need one, Dean," Cas deadpanned.

Dean laughed as he left the bathroom, worrying himself slightly with how much he agreed.

The party atmosphere was muted and strange, an odd tension in the room that set Dean’s teeth on edge. The hall itself was classy, all rich dark wood and chandeliers. The guests looked dashing in their tuxedos and dresses; Dean adjusted his tie a little. The bow tie was in with his other suit, the one Cas was putting on. Dean wondered if he’d wear it.

Crowley sauntered over, a martini in each hand.

"Can’t have you standing there like a lampshade," he said, handing one to Dean. "Where’s your other half?"

"Changing," Dean grunted.

"Weird guy," Crowley commented. "Got a sort of psycho vibe going on with those eyes." He mimicked Cas’ long, intense stare, then laughed. "Bet you’re glad he’s not here."

"Actually," Dean started with controlled anger, and then stopped, because Cas had just walked in. Whether by accident or design, he’d pushed open both of the double doors as he entered. Dean’s suit, skinny in the leg and sleek as a black cat, was just ever so slightly too large - but it hardly mattered, Dean thought, when Cas’ hair was all mussed from changing, and the bow tie was hanging undone around his neck, and his cheeks were just slightly dark with stubble. With every eye in the room on him and mutters flitting through the gathered guests, Cas approached the bar and picked up a martini. Spotting Dean, he walked over - the same formal, powerful walk as before, but somehow magnified.

"Good evening, Dean," Cas said with a small smile.

"Uh. Hey, Cas," Dean replied. "You, you look -"

"Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I struggled with the bow tie for a while, but I have no idea how it goes. Would you do it for me?"

"Sure," Dean said faintly, handing his empty glass to a waiter. He grabbed the tie a little roughly and began to make the bow. He cleared his throat, trying not to look up into Cas’ eyes, or notice the softness of the bristles under Cas’ jawline against the back of his hand.

"Um. I spoke to Crowley again. I was right, he’s definitely a tool, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Still, I’ve got my gun, so I’ll be ready if anything goes down."

"Me too," Cas nodded, taking a sip of his martini.

"Ladies, gentlemen and others," called Crowley from a podium at the end of the room. Dean finished tying the bow and patted Cas’ shoulder; Cas thanked him with a look. "I think we’re about ready to start."

The crowd shuffled forward towards the seats that were clustered under a large chandelier in front of the stage, settling down to listen.

"You all know who I am, but for those who’ve been enjoying the booze and can’t see straight, it’s Crowley up here. Your beloved boss," Crowley began. "Oh, look at all those miserable faces. Yes, I’m still your boss, despite efforts to the contrary. I get to tell you what to do, so that’s what I’m going to spend the next twenty minutes doing. I’ll try not to bore you, but believe me, by the end of this speech, you’re going to be _dying_ to leave.”

"Dean," said Cas worriedly.

"Yeah," said Dean. "I know. That was textbook bad guy. What’s he up to?"

"Nothing good," Cas answered absently, staring around the room. What was he missing? The atmosphere in the room had darkened further; Crowley was obviously unpopular. "All my rivals," Cas murmured, after a few minutes.

"What?"

"All my rivals, Dean. That’s what Crowley said. All his rivals are here tonight."

"Yeah… so one of them is targeting Crowley, surely? Hoping for a promotion once Crowley’s on a slab."

Cas narrowed his eyes, watching the stage.

"Dean," he said slowly. "If I wanted to eliminate all my rivals, I could take them out one by one. Or…"

"I could… gather them in a room and eliminate them together," Dean finished incredulously.

"And send myself death threats," Cas added, as the thought struck him. "So that when I survive the tragedy, I won’t be suspected."

"Holy crap, Cas. You really think Crowley’s the kind of guy to gather people in a room and - what? Blow them all up?"

"This is all rather wild conjecture," Cas admitted.

Crowley was still speaking.

"The prices are rocketing," he said as Cas tuned back in. "You could say it’s costing us an absolute _bomb_.”

Dean and Cas looked at each other.

"Ah, now he’s making it too easy," Dean said.

"We’ve got to find it, Dean. Whatever it is, it must be in this room. He wouldn’t want to blow the whole hotel, just a localised explosion."

"Don’t be too obvious," Dean murmured as Cas scanned the room. "We don’t know if it’s on a timer or a detonator." Cas nodded.

"Think, think," he heard Dean muttering. "Where would you hide a bomb?" Cas searched the room, but this was sounding more and more far-fetched the longer he thought about it. How would Crowley manage to set up a packet of explosives? He’d been inside his room the whole day. And besides, how could Crowley be sure of surviving a bomb blast?

He looked at the room one more time, the strange layout of the chairs - all grouped close together, underneath -

"Dean," whispered Cas. "Dean, it’s not a bomb. Not in here, anyway. He said his bedroom was right above this room, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly. "So…"

"He’s going to make the chandelier fall on them," Cas said, looking up at it. A huge glass monstrosity, hanging over the guests’ heads like the Sword of Damocles. "There’ll be a small device in Crowley’s bedroom, on the floor, right above the fixing. When it goes off, the ceiling will be blown apart and the chandelier will fall. Everyone underneath…"

"Crap. Come on," Dean said, hitting Cas on the chest and jerking him out of his reverie. "We’ve got to stop it from going off. Act natural. Head towards the bar and grab a drink, then head slowly for the exit."

Dean and Cas left the room side by side. They ditched their drinks as soon as they were clear of the hall, Cas pausing only to mutter a frantic few words to a hotel worker, who nodded with a confused expression. He caught up with Dean on the stairs, and they burst into Crowley’s room together.

"Find it, find it!" Dean said urgently, sifting through the debris on Crowley’s floor.

"It - it’s not here," Cas said hopelessly, kicking aside pyjamas and candy wrappers. "It’s not here! Maybe I was wrong, maybe it’s downstairs in the hall, attached to the chandelier itself…"

Dean paused for a long moment.

"Bathroom," he said eventually, moving to fling open the door.

There, on the floor, was a bomb.

Cas had never seen one in real life, but there were wires and a white packet and a ticking timer reading four minutes and thirty seven seconds, all duct-taped to the floor.

"Switch it off!" Dean was shouting, bending over the device, and Cas crouched to help him, everything moving in slow-motion and incredibly fast at the same time.

"There’s - there’s no switch, nothing…" Cas said frantically, sweat beading on his forehead. When he met Dean’s eyes, he saw a mirror of his own fear. "There’s just the wires. We’re going to have to cut them."

"Crap. _Crap_. OK,” Dean said, and for the first time Cas heard a shake in the other man’s voice. He realised then, very suddenly and horribly, that they could both die. The bomb was small, but surely it would be enough to blow them both six ways to Sunday in this enclosed space.

The same thought seemed to have occurred to Dean. He looked white and tense as he pulled out his knife.

"I don’t know about you, but I have no idea which wire to cut," Dean said. The wires were all black. Cas shook his head numbly. Three minutes.

"Right. OK. Well. You go, OK? You go now, you get those people out from under the chandelier. So that if it goes wrong…"

Cas shook his head again.

"I told a concierge to do it," he said softly. "I’m not leaving."

"Cas -"

"No, Dean, I’m not leaving you here."

"Cas, I don’t want you to die!" The words came out with a break in Dean’s voice on the last word, and Cas found himself choking up.

"And I don’t want _you_ to die, Dean,” Cas said as calmly as he could. “I’ve read your file, you have a brother. I’ve got no one, so please go. Leave the hotel, just get out, I’ll wait as long as I can…”

"No, Cas." Dean’s expression was ravaged, and he gripped the knife tight in his fist. "I - look, I should’ve handled this better. You’re the rookie, this is your first goddamn job and I’ve pulled you into this mess, I can’t just leave -" Cas glanced at the timer. Two minutes.

"Dean. _Leave_.”

"No. _You_ leave.”

“ _You_ leave, and then I’ll leave in a second. Once I’ve cut these wires.”

"How about we play rock-paper-scissors for it? Winner stays."

"How about you just leave, Dean! I’m trying to save your life!”

"I don’t want saving! I want -" Dean paused. He was damned if he was going to talk about his feelings before cutting the wires of a bomb, like this was some goddamn Hollywood movie. But he looked up into Cas’ eyes, and somehow it was enough. They both understood.

"Okay, Cas," Dean said. "Together."

"Together," Cas confirmed. "And if we live, that’s how we’re going to do things."

"I like that. We’ll do missions together."

"And drive places together."

"Eat at crappy diners together."

"See movies together."

"Watch the sun set together."

Cas smiled. “You sap, Dean.”

Dean shrugged, and reached for Cas’ hand, placing it next to his own on the knife.

"You started it," he said, and they cut the wire.

Two weeks later, Dean was sitting on the Impala’s hood, sipping a beer. He shifted slightly, feeling his burns stinging under their bandages. He would heal, the doctors said. He was lucky that he’d turned away from the blast; the back of his head was singed, but his face was undamaged apart from an impressive black eye and a split lip. His arms were bad - he’d thrown them up at the last minute, trying to protect -

He took a gulp of beer. The sun, low and streaked with red, hovered on the horizon like half a blood orange.

"Sunset, Cas," Dean said quietly.

Cas tilted his head, so that it rested lightly on Dean’s shoulder.

"It’s good to be alive, Dean," Cas said.

"You’re damn right." There was a pause.

"What are you going to do, Cas?" Dean asked, eventually, his voice strained with the tension of holding back the question as long as he could.

Cas lifted his head, looking into Dean’s eyes. He had a single scarred streak on his face, under his left eye, but Dean had protected his front from the worst. His back, on the other hand, had been a mess - he’d have the scars forever, between his shoulder blades.

"I’m going to stay with you, Dean," Cas replied, sounding confused that Dean would even ask. "If you - if you don’t think I’m too much of a liability."

Dean smiled, and leaned over to kiss his boyfriend. It was gentle, barely a touch - Dean’s lip still hadn’t fully healed. Instead, they pressed their foreheads together, rubbed noses. Dean twisted his bandaged hand around Cas’, paying no attention to the sting.

"You are absolutely a liability," Dean said. "When you’re around, I’m liable to fall totally in love with you."


End file.
